Friday, June 5, 2015

You can say at the age thirty four
one does become a staid connoisseur
of cool evenings, the time of merciful
setting dew, of leaf-breathing through and through
when every tittle of floating moisture
goes unwasted: nightfall divests itself
that flowers can fold themselves
and roots regain their drink,
expanding in the soil lounge
of surety for stem and leaf.

Perhaps the body is never so sure
as when it sleeps, though it dreams,
like flowers that close themselves
in the divestment of evening,
inviting a guardian circumnavigation
that holds it, like a star in void;
becomes so embodied
body seems a different body,
then wakes, and in labour,
tension and release, in sport and play,
the body abstracts itself, expunges
waste and draws upon nutrients
to partake and form, to form
in partaking, something beyond the body.

As one gets older the little things
you never noticed get fresher and fresher.
Perhaps one could say in the evening of life
the peat moss pots of the seedling sunflowers
draw like a sponge the available moisture;
and even the neglected dessicated
light as feathers for lack of water:
the little sunflowers wilting right over
pick up their faces.

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O Mary conceived without sin,

Saint Charbel

Saint Therese of Lisieux

Saint Mutien-Marie Wiaux

Pope Saint John Paul the Great

Saint Josemaria Escriva

Blessed Oscar Romero

Max Beckmann

Beckmann's Self-Portrait with Horn

Andrei Tarkovsky

Stalker

And they said to the mountains and to the rocks, "Fall on us and hide us from the presence of Him Who sits on the throne, and from the wrath of the Lamb; for the great day of their wrath has come, and who is able to stand?

Stalker

While they were talking and discussing together, Jesus Himself drew near and went with them. But their eyes were kept from recognizing Him. And He said to them, "What is this conversation which you are holding with each other as you walk?"

About Me

"Now that everyone who yearned to wear long pants/
has essentially achieved them,/
long pants, which have themselves been underwear/
repeatedly, and underground more than once,/
it is time perhaps to cherish the culture of shorts,/
to moderate grim vigour/
with the knobble of bare knees,/
to cool bareknuckle feet in inland water,/
slapping flies with a book on solar wind/
or a patient bare hand, beneath the cadjiput trees,/
to be walking meditatively/
among green timber, through the grassy forest/
towards a calm sea/
and looking across to more of that great island/
and the further tropics."
--From "The Dream of Wearing Shorts Forever", by Les Murray